by ML Banner
They had just made love before having their morning cafe out on the balcony. He could almost taste its bitterness and the smooth sweetness of the milk stirred into it. He’d have had several by this point, while he planned his day with his super-model girlfriend: where they’d go, what they’d buy at the store—
“Nigel, is our seal still strong?” his mate hollered from behind him, rudely interrupting his reverie.
He hated this job, but he needed to keep it. So he bit his tongue and didn’t tell him what he could do with the bloody seal. Nigel shot a glance at it. “Looks good here.”
He furtively glanced back up to the balconies, searching for the woman. She was gone. There were more passengers now on their balconies, all looking over Gibraltar. Many were pointing at the town.
“As if there was anything that interesting in this bloody town but a few bloody monkeys on a hill,” he snickered.
A scream drew his attention to a passenger more forward from where he’d been gawking. He squinted and found the screaming passenger also pointing with one hand, her other clutching her mouth. Beside her, an elderly man was gazing through binoculars. Nigel heard a muffled, “Oh my God.”
He now turned his attention in the same direction that she was pointing.
“Perhaps the Rolex she wanted was no longer in the window of her favorite store,” he grumbled.
But there was something going on in town. Some sort of commotion. He wished he had some binoculars too. But he was close enough that it didn’t take long for him to figure it out.
Not far away from them, just outside the port, was a street lined with outdoor restaurants. Nigel had daydreamed plenty about drinking unlimited pints of Guinness out there, instead of drinking a local brew at a pub much farther inland for about a fifth of the price. Outside each of these restaurants were little tables and chairs, which would be soon bustling with visitors from this ship and at least one other that was due to arrive later. There were only a few people there now, but they weren’t sitting. They were moving away from the street, slowly at first. Then, they darted inside as several objects moved down the street, mostly ignoring the restaurants. One of the objects, a brown and gray blur, dashed inside and then moments later bolted back outside, carrying what looked like a rolled-up towel that sprayed liquid.
It was still very hard to make out at this distance with the naked eye.
“Hey, what is that?” Nigel called out to his mate.
“Don’t know,” was the reply.
Another scream. This time, more of a screech, not as distant. And he could just barely make out the objects now: the brown-gray objects were actually those blooming monkeys. And that one monkey that had come out of the restaurant wasn’t holding a rolled-up towel.
It was holding up someone’s severed arm, like a macabre trophy. Now it was swinging it in the air, while it cried out to the other monkeys.
They all seemed to be headed to the cruise liner terminal... in his direction.
~~~
“Give me the number!” Jörgen bellowed from behind his binoculars. He did his own calculations on the port-side swing deck of the bridge, while glancing at the pandemonium in town drawing perilously closer.
“Ninety-two percent,” Jessica snapped back, her eyes glued to one of the many large tilted computer screens in the middle of the bridge.
“That’s good. Cut loose and let’s get out of here.” Jörgen scanned his entire port side before his gaze fell on the two barge workers, who appeared to be watching not their stations, but instead the town. Then one of them reacted abruptly and ran toward his bow, slipping down into an open hatch below. Both workers were needed to disconnect so that they could leave.
He wondered if they had waited just a minute too long.
~~~
Nigel looked back up and noticed the Intrepid’s captain was outside, gazing down at him, before turning and ducking inside his bridge. Nigel glanced back for his mate, but he was gone too. Probably went down below deck.
The two Regal European crew members who had made a hasty retreat earlier were back outside, yelling orders at him. “Disconnect! We need to leave now!”
Nigel was about to panic and bail: jump into the water and swim away. He then imagined how cold that water would be; he hated the cold. Then he reasoned that maybe he and his mate could get away in the barge and he’d be dry, if only he could do what they asked and disconnect.
More screaming, again from the balconies above. This time he ignored them all and examined the connected hose.
There was a blur to his left side for just a second, and then it was gone. Nigel looked over in that direction and saw two monkeys crawling on the tie line connecting the barge to the dock. The monkeys were headed for them. They couldn’t leave until they were disconnected, and he couldn’t disconnect until the flow had stopped. Nigel made a quick decision and darted to the outside control panel, where his no-good friend should have been.
He punched the emergency stop button and dashed back to the hose coupled to the big cruise ship. One of the crew from the ship was already trying to pull it off, but it was too soon. The man had to wait until the pressure was equalized, which wasn’t going to be for another moment or two. He desperately clawed at the fittings, shooting a glance at Nigel, just as Nigel pulled up to him. His eyes were wild with terror. And he was bleeding.
“The apes. We’ve got to go!” he yelled. Letting go of the coupling, he leapt up to the hatch at the same time as a monkey jumped up to greet him.
Nigel watched in disbelief as the monkey attacked the worker, who was trying to escape into the ship. He couldn’t help the guy. He had to disconnect now, if there was any chance of leaving. He lunged for and unclasped the coupling and it burst off, spraying black oil everywhere. He had pulled it off too early, but he didn’t have the luxury of waiting any longer. Part of the nozzle still held to the fitting. So he yanked once to pull it free and lost his footing on the oil already covering the deck.
All of his one-hundred-fifteen kilos tumbled hard onto the deck of the barge, his head hitting harder, and his vision exploded in fireworks.
He lay there for what was probably only a couple of seconds, but seemed like forever, as he tried to clear the daze that held him. He watched a monkey viciously bite and tear at the Intrepid crew member above. His crewmate, already behind a sealed door, stared through the porthole.
Then Nigel saw people above him, on those nice balconies, looking down at him.
One passenger was smoking a cigar.
What an idiot, Nigel thought. Didn’t your ship tell you it’s against the rules to smoke?
He watched the passenger move over him, unable to tell which was moving: the cruise ship or his own barge. Then he saw the cigar do somersaults in the air, seemingly on a wire, guided right at him. While he heard more cries and screams, Nigel gazed incredulously as the cigar bounced off his chest and landed on the deck’s oily surface beside him.
Nigel knew he still had a minute or two to abandon ship, as the heavy oil shouldn’t explode like the MGO. But it would burn very hot.
He attempted to right himself, but he couldn’t get a foothold. The oil looked a lot like black blood.
He felt a rush of heat and knew that the oil was already catching. He’d forgotten that heated oil burned quicker, and their oil was heated high. This was usually good for them because heated oil took up more room, which meant they could sell less of it for the same amount per liter and make more money. It wasn’t good now. The boat’s owner’s money-grubbing ways were going to get him killed.
With all his effort, he found himself standing hunched over, head craned up sideways like Quasimodo, glaring at the cruise ship as its bow passed by him. He knew what he needed to do to save himself. Only five feet separated him and the barge’s edge, and therefore the water. He put one foot in front of the other, slowly at first, then a little quicker, even though a searing pain swept up his legs—his pants must be on fire.
Three feet.
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His hands started to burn.
Two feet.
A blanket of heat covered his arms.
One foot.
A blaring screech hit him at the same time as a large brown object, sending him back onto the smoldering deck.
As Nigel’s face started to singe, a gruesome ape, mouth agape, screeched at him. Before it sank its giant fangs into his face, he noticed its eyes. They were red like blood.
18
Ted
For Ted, the unfolding of the last two days’ events was akin to watching a painter throw together a watercolor canvas on one of those PBS shows. But this version was even more excruciating.
The artist always started with a blank white canvas; what it would become was only known by the artist. First came the foundational colors: splashes of blues, browns, and blacks. Even after all of these were applied, the canvas revealed nothing to the audience. The blurry mess could have been anything, or nothing at all.
As the artist added flourishes to specific locations on the canvas, images started to take shape. On one corner, mountains burst upward out of the browns. On the other, low cloud formations billowed from the blue skies. And among the darkest portions of the canvas, a single boat emerged from the murk, like a ghost.
Each of these disparate images had its own story, which should belong to separate canvases. Or so it seemed. Of course, it was obvious to the audience that they must be somehow related, because of their single but most crucial connection: They were attached to the same canvas.
The animal attacks and the volcanoes were seemingly unrelated anecdotes splashed upon the same grand cataclysmic landscape taking shape before the eyes of the world. It should have been obvious to all that they were related. But Ted suspected few if any were connecting these anecdotes. He was instantly overwhelmed by a fear that by the time the world’s audience perceived this connection, it would be too late.
Near the end of the PBS show, the television show painter would toss a few quick strokes of his brush onto the canvas and instantly connect all the images into one: land, sky, and sea all seamlessly woven together into one symbiotic mosaic. Only then did the reason or theme of the painting become obvious. Those final flourishes were all that was missing to provide that ah-ha moment.
Ted was trying to speed up the process to get to that ah-ha moment so that he could understand why the animal attacks were connected to the volcanoes. If he did, maybe he could help to save his wife, his ship, maybe even humanity.
He sat heavily on the small couch of his cabin, facing the open slider and shrinking view of Gibraltar. His head was back and his eyes closed while he considered this real-life apocalyptic canvas that he and all his shipmates had found themselves splashed upon.
Something had caused animals to go all wonky in Spain and other parts of Europe. And whatever was doing this drove those animals into attacking other warm-blooded creatures. He was pretty sure he knew the root cause of their madness. After all, he had based a fictional book on this. But something had to instigate this mass bout of rage with the animals. Some sort of inciter.
In his book, it was a virus created by an insane anarchist. He doubted this real-life story had a human antagonist behind this. He wasn’t sure what logic was driving his thinking, but he believed this had to be natural and caused by the volcanic eruptions, he just didn’t know why. If he was at all correct, what would become of them was terrifying. And would this disease of madness remain only in Europe or spread elsewhere? And if he could even solve this part of the puzzle, would there be any way to stop it? The possibilities of more than half of all animals in the world being afflicted were too scary to even consider right now.
Ted sat up, still holding his binoculars, but he hesitated to raise them to his face, fearful that seeing it would make it real. TJ and he had traveled to Gibraltar once before, as part of a tour of Spain. He had been looking forward to seeing Gibraltar again, in spite of the large ship-spawned crowds: the majesty of its “Rock,” easily accessible by tram; the humor of its infamous residents, the Barbary apes; and its uniquely British feel, bursting with pubs serving Guinness on tap along with more tasteful twists to traditional British food, or what they’d call flavour.
Ted and TJ swore that they’d come back again. After the hordes had disembarked the ship, they’d take a little time to stroll its cobbled streets, enjoy some of its food and imbibe a pint, or two. That wasn’t going to happen now, and perhaps not ever again.
He considered the magnitude of this epidemic, with the numbers growing daily: three days ago, a couple; two days ago, several more; yesterday, an explosion of them. Today, the international news blogs and TV stations were abuzz about the animal attacks in Europe.
He considered two primary commonalities: the animals seemed crazy and their eyes were red. From as far north as Iceland to as far south as Egypt, and from Portugal in the west to Turkey in the east, birds, dogs, cats, and rats (and monkeys) were going mad.
From Le Figaro in Paris, yesterday:
“Packs of dogs roaming the Latin Quarter attacked other dogs and people. Seven deaths have been reported.”
From La Vanguardia in Barcelona, a few hours ago:
“Twenty-five people were treated for injuries sustained from what several victims reported as ‘rabid cats, with red eyes.’”
From EL PAÍS in Madrid, two days ago:
“Five people at a Hertz rental car parking lot were mauled by a German shepherd. Two died on the scene.”
And finally, from the Dario Sur in Malaga, yesterday:
“Fifteen people were attacked by seagulls in the Alcazaba castle area. An elderly couple was found dead at the scene.”
These last two prompted Ted to look specifically for stories from the next few scheduled ports. So far, there were no reports of attacks in the Canaries, although he had read a few mentions about recent earthquakes and worries about one of its active volcanoes erupting. But in Gibraltar, he found one small news story on a local blog site. It was the one that had prompted him to warn the captain. Then a minute later, it was backed up by a UK paper.
“British tourist mauled and nearly killed by one of Gibraltar’s infamous Barbary apes.”
In a way, he wasn’t too surprised, and this alone didn’t cause him worry. Frankly, he always wondered why more people weren’t injured by those monkeys, whose evil charms and proclivity to steal from unattended bags earned them favor among the tourists. If one of them wanted to get violent, there wasn’t much that could be done to stop them. And at least once before, several of the more “aggressive” monkeys were relocated to a wildlife park off Gibraltar.
But it was the report that had popped up in the UK’s Daily Harold that made him grow cold.
“Molly Adams of Lancashire was expected to make a full recovery after having her nose reattached. She couldn’t offer comment, because of heavy sedation. However, one of her nurses had reported that Ms. Adams kept screaming about ‘their evil red eyes.’”
That’s when he knew the captain couldn’t risk exposing the passengers of the Intrepid to more potential animal attacks. Christiansen seemed unsurprised by Ted’s reporting and responded with conviction, immediately canceling disembarkation and sealing up the ship. Now they were sailing out of port after topping off their fuel.
Ted felt good about this, but he knew to his bones that this was just one more vignette of this apocalyptic canvas unfolding all over Europe, and perhaps elsewhere. He hoped that he would be proven wrong, even though it would mean that he alone was the reason for everyone missing out on Gibraltar.
Please be wrong.
But he knew in his gut he wasn’t.
The whole time he had been back at their room he hesitated to look upon Gibraltar as it faded in the distance. He just didn’t want to confirm his thinking. Finally, Ted brought the binocular lenses up to his eyes, which were assaulted with both the surreal and horrific.
There were several fires burning, including a scary black blaze at the p
ort they’d just left. Stores were damaged, cars had crashed, and in between each were glimpses of monkeys jumping onto people, running after others, and killing still others on the ground. A startling bright red-orange light burst filled his field of view, as if he had pointed his binoculars directly at the sun.
Ted jumped, his heart skipping several beats. A deep thumping boom shuddered his suite’s back slider and their living area mirror.
Ted gulped back his surprise and watched in awe as a rolling ball of black smoke and fire spun upward. Something big had just blown up in the harbor.
Their cabin door opened and then slammed shut and TJ strolled in, her arms full of plates of food and two Stellas.
He had wondered what had happened to TJ as she had been gone the entire time Ted had done his research, convinced the captain to leave Gibraltar, refueled, and then returned to his cabin. It had been hours since she had left for a run. He even started to fear that she had somehow left the ship, even though the captain had confirmed no one had. He was immediately relieved to see her.
“I heard what you did and figured we needed some sustenance,” she said, her face grim.
She seemed unaware of the explosion, or the monkey attacks, but she was aware of his efforts to convince the captain to avoid Gibraltar—or was she?
“How did you hear?” he asked, laying the binoculars down on the vanity.
She set the plates and beers down on the coffee table and wrapped her arms around him.
She hugged him hard, and then released him, her face painted with a bright coat of anxiousness.
“We need to talk.”
19
The Talk
They had closed the slider, sealing themselves in, and talked for more than an hour. It was a tough talk. TJ first admitted to him the truth about their cruise: it wasn’t part of his book tour. It had all been set up by the Bureau because of her job, not his writing.
